


Soldier's Pins

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dog Tags, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:16:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6590752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has developed a habit of wearing John's dog tags, but what happens if John catches him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier's Pins

Before opening the bedroom door, Sherlock let the side of his thumb graze over the ball chain around his neck, a thrill running up his spine. This would be the first time he’d worn them outside the privacy of his own room. All right, so he may have tried them on when he first found them in John’s room, let the weight settle against his breastbone. The bright red disc denoting John’s allergy to penicillin had leapt out like a gunshot wound, in bright contrast to the true one, now turned white and gnarled only a few inches away under his shirt.

When he had slipped them over his head, he was simply sating some unnameable form of curiosity, but the moment the metal had settled on the nape of his neck, he had known he’d never be able to take them off. Not unless he knew he could access them whenever he wanted. They had felt like John. Sherlock’s whizzing thoughts had slowed to molasses.

He’d pressed his fingers to the bullet scar until it ached. It was a reminder of everything wrong--everything he’d mucked up--in his life, but those simple circles had reminded him of the one thing that was right. He’d felt calm, protected. It was like slipping on a talisman. He’d known he should have put them back, at least until he had discerned how often John checked the box in which they’d been stored, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it.

So, he’d raced downstairs and slipped them into a pair of bright green socks in his top dresser drawer.

It had been nothing when it started, just a way to slow his racing thoughts when they became too much. When he’d needed it, he could slip into his room, hold them in his hand or press them to his chest until his heart rate slowed, his blood pressure dropped. Then, back into the socks they would go. He could sometimes go days without touching them. Just knowing they were there had been enough.

But, he was nothing if not an addict, and he’d recognized the stages even as he’d been powerless to stop the progression. Experimentation had become regular use, and here was the next escalation. Wearing them in John’s presence was a risk, but he didn’t want to--he couldn’t--be without them. Even months after John’s tragic loss, even several weeks since his return to Baker Street, three small embossed metal circles were the closest Sherlock could come to having John.

Mycroft was right. Caring was not an advantage, but Sherlock was too far gone to save himself. He’d die loving John Watson. There was no way around it.

Sherlock blinked, one hand still poised over the knob to his bedroom door as the other gripped the chain at the side of his neck. This was foolhardy, the definition of idiotic. Even John couldn’t go long without noticing the errant piece of jewelry around Sherlock’s neck. But, at the same time…

With a deep breath, Sherlock prised his fingers from the chain. It left a row of imprints across the head line of his palm. How appropriate. He rubbed at them with the thumb of his opposite hand, but it was hopeless. He’d gripped it too hard. He was left with two choices: to wait it out until the marks disappeared or keep them out of John’s line of sight.

But, John knew he was up. He’d knocked on the door to ask if Sherlock wanted eggs, and Sherlock had answered. If Sherlock took too long, John would come in. No choice left, then. Time to face the music.

***

Sherlock walked into the kitchen in time to see John dumping the last bit of scrambled eggs onto a plate, plain wheat toast cut into triangles and stacked into a dam on the edge. He checked his collar. The chain was still hidden.

As John picked up the plate and its companion, Sherlock tapped the side of the kettle. Still hot.

John slid the RAMC mug off the counter just a foot from Sherlock’s elbow, taking a sip before setting it down at his place at the table. “I haven’t made you a cup yet, but kettle’s just boiled.”

“That’s fine.” Sherlock grabbed a tea bag from the open box on the counter, dropped it into a mug, and poured from the kettle. John’s presence prickled at Sherlock’s spine, condensing at the nape of his neck, and as he reached to spoon sugar into his tea, the tags shifted against his chest. His heart leapt. His nipples tightened.

That was interesting.

Not to say that the sexual excitement he felt was surprising. He supposed he should have considered it. Sherlock did find John, among many other things, arousing, and his fantasies of John did often have a military component. He’d even contemplated the possibility of John treating him like an insubordinate private and had found the idea not completely abhorrent. But still, the way the suspense of this particular risk hit him was unexpected.

He swirled the tea and sugar with his spoon, watching the bag bob and weave as the strange blend of calm and excitement buzzed over his skin. John was behind him. John was resting on his chest. He was everywhere. Sherlock was breathing him in, and it was intoxicating. Possible outcomes of discovery swirled into his head, and although he knew most outcomes would be negative, those were not the scenarios playing out.

With a decorous cough to clear his throat, Sherlock tossed bag and spoon into the sink and spun to sit at the table. The clink of the tags was loud in his ears, audible even over the rush of blood. But it was only his telltale heart, or so he tried to convince himself. Surely John couldn’t hear. He made no sign of it, spreading jam on his toast before crunching into it. He gave Sherlock a close-lipped smile around his food and grabbed a section from the newspaper.

Before digging into his own breakfast, Sherlock’s left palm skated down his breastbone, pressing the tags to his skin before he realized what he was doing. His cheeks heated. His hand dropped to his side, gripping the edge of his chair, and he forced his other hand to pick up his fork.

Though his left hand still refused to relinquish its hold, Sherlock managed to eat as if everything were normal. John scanned the paper, taking bites between page turns. Sherlock ate, scooping curds onto his fork and chewing. If nothing else, John knew his scrambled eggs, always fluffy and moist.

It wasn’t until several bites later that Sherlock realized John was talking.

Sherlock’s brows drew towards his nose. “What?”

“Are you all right?”

Sherlock’s left hand released the chair, flying up to grab at the toast. “Fine.”

John’s gaze was palpable, scanning Sherlock’s every feature as Sherlock tried to decide which item to eat first, but after a moment, John sat back, stuffing the last of his toast into his mouth.

“All right,” John said around his mouthful as he stood. “If you say so.”

Sherlock let out a breath, his shoulders dropping as the tension in them eased. He pushed a bite of eggs onto the corner of his toast and stooped to eat it lest the eggs fall off.

But once he sat up, he flinched. Dishes clattered behind him, and before he could fully turn around, he felt pressure on the back of his neck. Two points of scalding heat bracketed the chain, goosebumps radiating over Sherlock’s neck. His heart seized as if a stone fist had closed around it, his pulse loud in his ears, throbbing in his neck.

The points came together like pincers, nails grazing his skin as the chain lifted away, up and up until the tags clinked their way past Sherlock’s open collar. He was frozen in place, toast quavering in his grip. His breath sped, though he felt as if even his lungs had gone rigid. His mind told him to flee, to fight, to explain for God’s sake, but his body refused to listen. He must have been the only living man in history to develop rigor mortis.

John laid his hand over Sherlock’s collarbone, gathering up the tags and cupping them in his palm. The thumb rubbed over them, spreading them like a deck of cards.

John swallowed. “Sher--”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped to John’s, the only movement of which his body was capable, and the word died on John’s lips. His teeth clacked on the closing of his jaw, and he swallowed again, caught in Sherlock’s eyes. Neither could look away. John’s expression was infuriatingly unreadable, and God only knew what Sherlock’s face was doing. He imagined every emotion he’d ever felt for this man was written on his face as clear as if they’d been etched in Sharpie. He struggled to school his features, draw himself inwards, but John’s eyes held him there, flayed.

Sherlock’s jaw wagged like the tail of a nervous puppy, vocal cords forming only the most incomprehensible of sounds. _For God’s sake, control yourself._

“You took these?” John asked. To Sherlock’s surprise there was no scorn in his voice, no sternness in his eyes, only entreaty.

“Yes,” Sherlock croaked, clearing his throat. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped to the tags in John’s hand, John’s name stamped on them the way it had been stamped on Sherlock. Surely he knew. He couldn’t be that obtuse, so why make Sherlock say it? Why put him in the position to express feelings that couldn’t be reciprocated? If it was only to be let down easy, Sherlock would rather let it all remain unsaid.

But when he looked back into John’s eyes--John’s deep, beautiful, tender eyes--he couldn’t stop the words. “Human error.”

John swallowed, his lips pressed tight together as he stared at the tags. His thumb ran over them once more, catching Sherlock’s gaze, and once it was caught, it was trapped. John’s hand--his small, calloused, capable hand--stroked and shuffled the discs before closing around them. With a small glottal sound, he nodded.

“How long?”

“Twenty-two days--”

“Not that.” John’s voice sounded strained. “You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

Sherlock glanced up. John’s gaze was like a lit burner, making him flinch away.

“Since before…” Sherlock dropped his hands to his lap, watching them wrench themselves together. “Since before.”

The tags dropped to Sherlock’s chest, swaying. He took a deep breath and held it. _Here it comes._

Sherlock had always thought the phrase deafening silence was ridiculous and trite, but now he understood. His ears rang so loudly that if the apocalypse came, he doubted he would notice.

But, John’s fingers gripping his jaw were hard to miss, making Sherlock gasp as sound rushed back to him, and John swallowed it up. His mouth was hard, a relentless force against Sherlock’s, and he had to catch himself on John’s shoulders just to keep from falling. The room spun and spun, but John held him still, licking and biting and sucking. It wasn’t until John pulled away that the world crashed to a halt, punching the breath from Sherlock’s lungs.

“My God,” John gusted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me you could kiss like that?”

Sherlock blinked. Had he been kissing back? He must have, but before he could review the situation, John was back on him, fingers tangled in his hair.

Sherlock groaned and tipped his head back, pressing his scalp to John’s fingertips. Of all the scenarios that had occurred to him in the few minutes since leaving his bedroom, none could measure up to reality. John was kissing him like a man drowning. He was moaning and whimpering and touching and tugging, and God, what a revelation.

Sherlock grabbed John’s waist, tugging him closer, but that had the entirely undesirable effect of making John straighten up. However, it also put John’s stomach and chest at the perfect height for Sherlock to bury his face, which he did. He rubbed his cheek against John’s jumper, breathing him in. He’d never smelled anything more manly. He never wanted to stop. He needed more.

Tugging John’s t-shirt from his trousers, Sherlock pushed it and the jumper up John’s torso until he could press his nose to bare skin, inhale it, kiss it, taste it.

John shivered, his fingers flexing against Sherlock’s scalp. “Do you want to take this to the--”

Sherlock popped up. “Sofa?”

John chuckled as his fingers skated down from Sherlock’s hair to his shoulders. “I was going to say bedroom, but the sofa’s fine.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s chair scraped against the kitchen floor as he swept to his feet, marching past John’s chair and flopping onto the sofa. The tags jingled with the commotion. Music to Sherlock’s ears.

John followed, shucking his shirts on the way, and Sherlock’s eyes caught on the pucker of scar tissue on John’s shoulder, the thick blond curls wending their way across his chest, thinning on his stomach before thickening again below his navel, where they disappeared beneath John’s trousers. It made Sherlock’s mouth water, wondering what was to be found underneath. But before Sherlock could form the question much less act on it, John’s knees settled on either side of his hips, his arse coming to rest on Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock fidgeted, his hands hovering over John’s legs until John laid his hands over Sherlock’s chest. Then, with a gust of breath, Sherlock let his hands drop. He scraped his thumbnails over denim, catalouging the way it vibrated against his fingertips.

Thumbing at a shirt button, John asked, “May I?”

Sherlock nodded, and John went to work, methodically pushing each button from its hole until the shirt was open to Sherlock’s belly button. He pulled the tails from the front of Sherlock’s trousers, and Sherlock arched his back to allow John to do the rest.

Smoothing the fabric aside, John sighed, “My God.”

“Not quite.” A mixture of mirth and nerves threatened to bubble to the surface until John’s thumb on his bottom lip, John’s chest settling against his, cut it short.

John kissed the joint of Sherlock’s jaw before ghosting his lips over Sherlock’s ear. “Cheeky.”

Sherlock couldn’t answer. He could only tremble and stroke his hands over John’s thighs and hips.

His breath hot on Sherlock’s skin, John trailed the tip of his nose down from Sherlock’s ear, licking a stripe up his neck. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that?” His thumb swept over the spot he’d just licked. “These moles, Sherlock. I thought they’d be the death of me.”

“What?”

John’s teeth dragged over Sherlock’s clavicle. “And this spot right here. You with your damn open collars and your scarves. God.”

Sherlock shuddered, his hands gripping hard onto John’s hips. “You’ve thought about this?”

With one more swipe of the tongue against Sherlock’s jugular notch, John lifted his head. “Yeah. ‘Course I have.”

“Why?”

John chuckled, kissing the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Now you’re just fishing for compliments.”

The skin above Sherlock’s nose wrinkled.

“Oh my God. You’re not.” John sat up, concern writ on his features. “Do you really not know?”

Sherlock surged up. The sudden loss of contact between their bodies was unsettling in a way he couldn’t define, and he couldn’t stand it for even a moment. He’d never felt so lost in his life, so confused. None of what John was doing or saying made any sense to him. Why couldn’t he get the pieces of data to cohere?

He clung to John, pressing his face to John’s chest, breathing him in. He could feel John’s racing heart against his cheek, John’s erection against his stomach. John wanted him, and his words suggested it was not a new feeling, but why?

“Hey.” John’s palm pressed to the underside of Sherlock’s chin, guiding his face up until their eyes could meet. “You all right?”

Sherlock swallowed, dragging John down until their foreheads touched. The heel of his hand pressed to John’s carotid, confirming the data he’d already gathered. John’s pupils were blown, but he wasn’t pushing their encounter forward. He was just running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, rubbing his palms down Sherlock’s shoulders and biceps.

Without moving his head, Sherlock made eye contact with John. “You love me.”

It was John’s turn to swallow, a smile flickering across his face before it went serious. “Yes.”

Sherlock rushed upwards, capturing John’s mouth before dragging them both back to the sofa. His hands scrabbled over John’s waist and hips, struggling to find the loose end of his belt. He had to have his hands on John’s bare skin, every inch of it, but he couldn’t do it without getting the damned belt off first. He tugged and tugged at it, his hands clumsy with arousal, growling his frustration into John’s mouth.

Finally, John reared back, stepping off the sofa. His hands were busy at his waist as he kicked off his shoes, and before he could fully process the circumstances, Sherlock whined.

Pushing his trousers and pants to his knees, John nodded in Sherlock’s direction. “Do you want to take those off, or should I?”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. He momentarily considered the proposal, imagining John’s hands working his belt from the loops, tugging fabric down his legs, but in the end, he simply nodded. “I’ll do it.”

Once they were both free of their clothes, John climbed back onto the sofa and in between Sherlock’s legs. As he settled on top of Sherlock, their erections slid together, making Sherlock hiss and buck.

“John,” he sighed, pressing his heels against John’s arse.

“Yeah.” John reached behind himself, holding Sherlock’s ankle, encouraging Sherlock as he thrusted. “That’s it, love. That’s gorgeous.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, concentrating on all the points of contact between them, all the places that set his skin on fire. If this continued much longer, he felt he might reduce to ash. He could feel a drip of precome draw a warm, wet line down his cock, and he couldn’t tell whether it was his or John’s. It made him shudder. He wanted to touch it with his fingers. So, he did.

He hadn’t planned much more than to trace the wet line, maybe bring his fingers to his mouth to taste it, but once his fingers brushed John’s cock, it was all over. John cursed. He dropped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder. God, what could Sherlock do but try to elicit more? He wanted to hear every filthy thing that could come from that mouth. He wanted to kiss it knowing what he could make it do. He wanted to swallow the words, wipe them away with his tongue.

He wrapped his hand around John’s cock, making John’s hips stutter. But then, John said, “Both of us.”

In the immortal words of John Watson: Oh God, yes.

Sherlock did as he was asked. John’s cock was exquisite, hard and silken and throbbing, and it was all Sherlock could do just to keep control of his extremities. Actually, he couldn’t do it. His heels pushed against John’s arse, his hips bucked, and his hand could do little but squeeze and release around the pair of them as they thrust against each other. But in the end, it didn’t matter how coordinated Sherlock was. He wasn’t a finessed lover, at least not in that moment, but that didn’t stop the litany of filth pouring from John’s mouth.

“Fuck yeah. That’s it. Squeeze me. Show me how you like it.”

Meanwhile, all Sherlock could say was, “John.”

John’s teeth scraped over Sherlock’s ear, his jaw, his neck, constantly roaming as he spoke against Sherlock’s skin. “I’m close. You’re gonna make me come.”

“John. John.” _Yes. Please. Come for me._

Sherlock’s own orgasm coiled deep within his groin, forcing his hips higher and higher, tightening his abdominals until they burned. John’s name poured out of him faster and faster until finally he stiffened, a wordless groan ripping from his throat. His neck craned back, sparks lighting up behind his eyes. Every inch of his skin felt alive, his nerve endings crackling like lightning.

Slowly, he came down, letting himself slip from his grip as his hand lazily slid over John’s erection, slicked by his own come. After a moment, John’s hand joined his own.

“Oh God, Sherlock. That was gorgeous. I could watch you all day.”

Sherlock hummed, his eyelids fluttering, refusing to open completely. John’s huffed breaths heated his neck, and he reveled in it. John’s body trembled, and Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s ear.

“Come for me, John.”

With that, John shuddered, coming with a long hiss of breath against Sherlock’s neck, and then slowly, he sank, their mixed come slicking their bellies. Objectively, it was disgusting, but in the moment it felt wonderful, intimate, delightfully dirty.

Sherlock let his fingers wander over John’s back, charting the territory of smooth and scarred skin. The tags settled, warm and smooth, over Sherlock’s heart. Their breathing slowed, falling into sync, and if the back of Sherlock’s mind hadn’t been on the unhygienic consequences, he could have slept quite peacefully just like that.

The stairs creaked.

“Yoo hoo, boys.”

They stopped creaking for a moment before a quick succession of stomps. John tensed above him, and Sherlock didn’t dare opening his eyes.

“You might close the door first if you’re going to be doing that.” Mrs. Hudson slammed the door, her muffled, retreating, indignant--but delighted--voice continuing, “Anyone could walk in.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to iamjohnlocked4life for the beta.


End file.
